


Home Away

by SegaBarrett



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26829829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/pseuds/SegaBarrett
Summary: Abigail just needed some rest.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2
Collections: Bring Your Own Boos 2020





	Home Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inquisitor_tohru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal, and I make no money from this.

On the trips she had taken with her father to his hunting cabin, Abigail had gotten very used to sleeping through all sorts of _sounds_. Sometimes it was the deer crunching over leaves in the forest, and sometimes it was a fly buzzing in her ear after it slipped through the crack in the open window.

And sometimes it was her father slipping back into the cabin after killing and planning to eat a girl who looked just like Abigail.

She had gotten used to sleeping through it all and pretending that everything was normal. The sounds had actually become calming at some point in time.

Whatever she heard now, though, was different somehow. There was a kind of slow crunch, something not only slow and loud but seemingly close. And this was Baltimore – things didn’t crunch around here so much as blare in the middle of the night, either someone playing their music way too loud or sirens heading to a house fire. This was Baltimore, technically, but it was also still a cabin, behind the Baltimore Woods Nature Center . City people liked to get away for the weekend too, Abigail had learned, even if they wanted their getaway to be right off the interstate.

This was neither city sounds nor rural sounds, however, and wasn’t any kids playing out front – another usual sound – either. Kids who had the rest of their lives ahead of them and hadn’t been plastered across the front of every paper in the state.

This was neither of those, and wasn’t any kinds playing out front – another usual sound – either.

Abigail kicked her legs over the bed and moved to stand up. Maybe she should call someone, but who? Would Will drive all the way from Wolf Trap to listen to what was literally just “a weird sound”?

He might, Abigail admitted to herself, but it was too late – or too early – whatever time 2AM was exactly – for that anyway.

Abigail began to slowly walk across the room, breathing in and out. What was there left to be afraid of, after all, when all the worst had already come and gone? When she had looked into her memory and seen her face on all of those smiling dead girls but never found it in herself to ask the question of why?

She drifted, in her slippers (fuzzy and tactile, perfect, she needed to touch something sometimes to remember that she was really there after all) over to the staircase. 

She heard another creek, then the sound of some sort of wind whistling through… the trees, maybe? Or the cabin itself? Or perhaps it was now all in her head and the experience had finally broken her, had waited until the end of it when a break could no longer do any good.

To make her the “Last Victim”, as Freddie Lounds had wanted to call her. What a joke. But she had nodded her head and listened, had come along for the ride. Up until Ms. Lounds had wanted to drag down Will Graham – somehow, she hadn’t managed to bring herself to go along with that. Who was Will Graham to her, anyway? He wasn’t her savior, but he wasn’t her destruction either. He was something else, and maybe he didn’t even know exactly what that entailed.

Which brought her back to the consideration of calling Will. What was she meant to tell him, anyway, though? And by the time he made it here, whatever it was would be gone.

She hoped so, at least.

That was when she heard it, the sound of a soft, airy voice… was it speaking, or was it singing? Abigail wasn’t quite sure.

_“I thought I was dead, I thought, I thought, but now I know, I know…”_

The voice sounded far too close for Abigail’s comfort, but she couldn’t tell exactly where it was. She wondered if she should call out – what if that just pissed off whoever it was, though?

Finally, she sighed and decided she should say something, even if that something was going to be stupid.

“Is there someone there?”

There was a flash in front of her eyes, like a camera going off, and then she blinked, trying to clear her eyes. She couldn’t have just seen whatever she just saw. It had to be a trick of the light, or maybe she hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

And then she felt the touch on her shoulder. 

Abigail shivered. She didn’t know what she was going to face, but it couldn’t be good. 

That didn’t stop her from turning her head, though. Maybe she had followed more than just Freddie Lounds’ whispered suggestions. Maybe there was a thrill in the wrongness, in the cruelty. Maybe it ran in the family.

She turned her head and saw a face before her – well, she couldn’t call it that just quite. It was a ghostly face, pale and scabbed over, with hungry dead eyes staring at her.

“I carved her face, it was such a pretty face,” the girl said, and then she reached out and placed a hand over the contours of Abigail’s cheek. She stood rooted to the spot as something cold, like chilled Vaseline, ran down her nose and over her mouth, as if the girl was checking to see if Abigail was real or whether she had imagined it. “You’re pretty,” the girl said, “But not as pretty as she was. You’ll see, though. You’ll see one day. You think, think, think you’re dead, but it isn’t good until you know, know, know!”

Abigail tried to pull her face back, but couldn’t seem to make her body respond to her mind. She wanted to cry out, but she also wanted to keep looking. The girl’s eyes were like black holes.

“You’ll know, you’ll know, you’ll know!” the girl exclaimed.

And then Abigail woke up.

She realized a moment later that she was not in Baltimore, at some tourist trap.

She was at her father’s hunting cabin, listening as elk trotted against the Minnesota snow without a care in the world.

Of course she was.


End file.
